Of pawns and kings
by Mr.Crouch'sDaughter
Summary: "He could hear Ellie's cheerful greetings, overcompensating as usual. 'Oh, I am so glad to see you. Don't mind the dead body in the pool of blood.'" Lot of Hardy/Miller friendship. Case work. And yeah, Hardy/OC. But I am really trying to make it decent.


Author's Note: Broadchurch belongs to the BBC and CC. I am not making any money of it.

Rating: T, for now

Summary: "He could hear Ellie's cheerful greetings, overcompensating as usual. _Oh, I am so glad to see you. Don't mind the dead body in the pool of blood."_

 **Of pawns and kings**

 **Chapter One: In which Ellie Miller shows off**

To Alec Hardy, dead people never looked peaceful. They looked lost. They made the whole surroundings appear false. Just like the old man down on the ground in front of him, murdered right in the middle of his living room. The armchair next to him, the one he had probably used most of the day, had suddenly lost its meaning entirely. The mahogany desk, polished and shiny, wasn't worth anything anymore.

Well, it probably was, given the man was Arthur Praxton, a retired antique dealer, as Ellie had told him two minutes ago. Not that she had left it at that, of course. Ellie always had to add some personal insight.

"He was a nice man. Lived pretty secluded, but when you met him in the store, he'd always greet you with: I bid you a good morning. Kinda sweet."

Alec couldn't help thinking that she would describe him as being posh if he ever greeted her that way. Apparently, other rules applied for old men.

Arthur Praxton's death however had neither been sweet, nor posh. Someone had butchered him pretty badly; a lot of stitches and blood. The blood had severely stained the oriental carpet and the smell of blood was heavy in the air.

His body had been found by his housekeeper, who came everyday to keep the dust off the various antiques. A costly affair, but Praxton sure could afford it.

Maybe a holdup murder; those were surely getting more violent in these days. Hardy knelt down to take a closer look at the body. Forensics were running late as always. As he studied Praxton's face, he raised his eyebrows.

"Miller," he shouted.

"Yeah?" the woman replied and stepped next to him.

"Take a look," he said.

Slowly, she bent down. He caught her eyes, half fixed on the window. He suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. Tough as she was, Ellie Miller sure had a great big stop sign plastered on her forehead when it came to corpses.

"Look!" he snapped and pointed at Praxton's mouth.

She forced her eyes off the windows and reluctantly stared at the man. "Looks like he's got something in his mouth. Maybe he bit his tongue."

"Possible," he replied and looked over his shoulder. "Damn it, where the hell are forensics?"

"You know, not everyone sits alone on his couch on a Saturday evening, just waiting for a murder to happen. Some of us actually have a life."

"Yeah, well, maybe some of us should think about changing profession," he mumbled. Of course, she heard it and slapped his shoulder. She did that a lot more since they had finished Trish's case – sometimes he was really awed by her persistent tries to make him a less grumpy and more socially adapted person. He was sure she wouldn't succeed, though.

Finally, forensics arrived. He could hear Ellie's cheerful greetings, overcompensating as usual. _Oh, I am so glad to see you. Don't mind the dead body in the pool of blood._

He forwent the greeting altogether.

"I think there's something in his mouth," he said instead and was awarded with a glare he ignored. He waited – more or less patiently, with Ellie standing beside him – until the mouth of the victim was finally opened and a crumbled piece of paper was extracted.

The mahogany desk suddenly found its purpose again as he carefully unfolded the paper on it, under Ellie's sharp stare.

"What does it say?" she asked, leaning closer.

"I got no idea," he replied, staring at the somehow familiar, somehow strange letters in front of him.

"That's Old English," Miller said.

Surprised, he stared at her. "You're sure?"

"Of course I am sure, otherwise I wouldn't have said it," she replied casually.

"How do you know?"

"My granddad had a knack for that. Couldn't read it for shit but thought it looked pretty. He could write some letters. The words never made sense, but he taught me nevertheless. He was quite proud about it."

He could tell by the look in her eyes she was, as well.

"Can't believe you don't know that," she said with a smug grin. "With all your experience."

"Murderers seldom leave notes. And if they do, it usually isn't a good sign."

"Ah, come on, you're just puffed I knew something you didn't."

"I am fully aware you sometimes know more than I do, but usually, it doesn't come that handy," he said.

"You're an arse", she said, but her voice was warm.

"So, what's written there?" he asked.

She shrugged her shoulders. "Don't have a clue. Told you my granddad couldn't read it, so he couldn't teach it. Wouldn't probably remember even if he could have."

He sighed. "So, your great talent is mostly useless."

"Oi! I told you the language; I thought a great Detective Inspector like you would know someone who can read it."

Hardy frowned. "Actually, I do. Well, I might."

His partner raised her eyebrows. "Really?"

"Yeah." He took a look around. "Anything else we need to check?"

"House is pretty tidy. Doesn't seem to be something missing – but well, you can't really tell with all the expensive stuff around here. Brian's talking to the housekeeper to see if she notices something, but a man like Praxton probably has a list for the insurance company."

"Good," he said and pointed on the paper. "Write that down on your notepad."

As she had finished, he ripped the page off. "Come on," he said and left the house, heading straight towards the car.

"Where are we going?" she asked as she got in.

"Seeing someone who can read this, obviously," he said.

* * *

To Ellie, Sandbrook was stained. With the case of the two girls, with his health problems, with Tess Henchard. She didn't exactly understand why he went back there so willingly; on the other hand, he was always like that if he thought he had some sort of lead. Nothing else mattered, neither eating nor sleeping. She admired it – and hated it. Against to Alec Hardy, Ellie Miller didn't have the talent to go hungry for days.

"Where the hell is she?" Hardy said as they stood in the middle of Sandbrook's police station.

"Huh?" she asked.

"For fuck's sake," he muttered and with a few, long steps opened the door to Tess' office.

"Where the hell is Donahue?" he asked without further introduction.

Tess raised an eyebrow. "Well, good afternoon to you as well. Hello, Ellie."

"Yeah, yeah. Donahue?"

Ellie looked at both of them and suddenly remembered how he had called her love as they had argued about reopening the case. She grinned a little at the thought.

"DS Donahue is currently investigating a robbery. I don't know when she will be back," Tess replied.

"DS?" he spat out. "You made her DS? How old is she, 25?"

Tess glared at him. "She's 33, Alec. Maybe you should invest some of your attention in the people you work with."

Ellie did not particularly like Tess, but when it came to Alec Hardy, she was mostly right.

"Where took the robbery place?" he asked, ignoring her statement completely.

"22 Crimson street. The jewellery store. What do you even want with her?"

He turned on his heels and left the office, ignoring her question.

"Thank you very much," Ellie said. It earned her a grin from the other woman. Sometimes she wondered if Tess Henchard had played her role before – the polite anchor to Hardy's unbelievable grumpiness. But then again, Tess did not exactly look like she would play the anchor for anyone.

"Miller!" Hardy called.

* * *

The jewellery store was located in a polished looking, very old building in the middle of Sandbrook. Forensics were currently working on the front door, probably trying to get some fingerprints.

"Donahue?" Hardy asked shortly as they passed the man working there.

"Somewhere inside."

With one quick look around, Ellie saw the place was a mess. Whoever had broken in had lost control as soon as the front door had been opened. All the glass displays had been smashed, bracelets, rings and collars were scattered all over the floor.

Right in the middle of this chaos, a woman had bent down, eyes focused on the floor, as if she was putting together a puzzle.

Hardy fetched the note out of his pocket and held it right under her nose.

"What's written there?" he asked.

So, that was DS Donahue, Ellie thought. She had suspected a redhead, freckles and pale skin. DS Donahue's appearance was as far from Irish as possible, with long black hair and bronze skin. As she looked up at Hardy, her green eyes revealed nothing.

She rose and Ellie swiftly wondered if "looking posh" was a criterion you needed to fit when you wanted to work for Sandbrook police. If so, Donahue sure matched it with her black trenchcoat, trousers and the white blouse. Even more, she was so slender that Ellie felt the desperate urge to buy her a sandwich.

"Williams, did you reach the owner?" she called out to an officer somewhere in the back.

"Not yet, Ma'am."

"Try the daughter. Maybe she knows about her father's whereabouts."

Turning back towards them, Donahue said: "I am currently busy. You can meet me at the station later."

"No, we can't. Against to you, we're not trying to solve a simple robbery, we've got a murder," Hardy said sharply.

"In Sandbrook?" the woman asked.

"Oh, don't be daft!"

Ellie rolled her eyes. "We're very sorry to disturb you, DS Donahue," she said.

"You're DS Miller, right? Saw you in the news," she replied casually.

"Yes. Well, you see, someone murdered Mr. Praxton - butchered actually – and we found this note in his mouth. It's in Old English, I think and it might be crucial. It really won't take long."

She could feel Hardy's glare, but she didn't care. They needed the information as soon as possible and his way of talking to the woman in front of them sure wasn't showing any results.

"Show it to me," Donahue said and took off the gloves.

Hardy held out the note. Donahue studied it for a while and Ellie feared Hardy's patience would run out, but then, finally, she said:

"The foolish man built his house on sand."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Ellie asked, looking at Hardy.

"I haven't got a clue," he muttered absent-mindedly.

"Buy a bible," Donahue said.

"What?" They both asked in unison.

"It's from the New Testament. Matthew, I think. Not really sure. A standard text you get to see when you study languages."

"You studied languages?" Ellie asked.

"For a while," Donahue said shortly, looking at Hardy. "I did what you asked of me. Now, I would be grateful if you could leave me to my case. It might just be a simple robbery, but someone needs to do these, too."

"Yeah. I am sure you're fully qualified for that," Hardy replied and walked off.

Donahue shook her head. "Well, good luck to you," she said to Ellie and took out her phone.

"You know he doesn't mean that. I mean, you worked for him before."

"Yeah, I worked for him. I made him tea because he thought I couldn't be trusted with anything else. And most of the days, he complained about the tea as well. But times change."

"Yeah," Ellie said, not sure what else to say.

"Miller!" Hardy called again.

She was expecting Donahue to say something sarcastic about him calling her by her surname, but the woman just turned around, joining the officer in the back.

* * *

"There's a bookstore not far from here," he said as they got back in the car. "Unless you carry a bible around with you."

"Tried. There wasn't enough space in the holster."

Hardy didn't comment on the joke. Well, she was used to that. The man didn't seem to possess the slightest sense for humour. Or the decency to laugh anyway.

"It's pretty impressive."

"What?" he asked.

"Being able to read that."

He snorted. "She grew up bilingual. Natural knack for languages."

"So?"

"It's not impressive if you don't have to work for it."

Ellie sighed. "You know, you can't motivate anyone for shit."

"If you need motivation to be a detective you've chosen the wrong profession. Solving a case should be motivation enough," he replied.

"As I said: can't motivate for shit," she mumbled.

 _Reviews, suggestions, flames are appreciated!_


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